Envious Casca ih-2

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "I didn't feel in the least like this. I now feel so brimful of human kindness that if it wasn't Boxing Day I'm damned if I wouldn't drive in to the Free Library, to see if I could find a copy of the Life of the Empress there for Aunt Maud."

  "Well, you needn't bother, because she's writing to London for one," said Valerie.

  In this she was not quite accurate. Maud had indeed set out to write such a letter, but as she unfortunately could not recall either the author or the publisher of the book, and the title pages had been consumed in the incinerator, an insuperable bar seemed to have arisen in the way of her obtaining the volume. She appealed to everyone to supply her with the necessary details, but as no one knew them, no one could come to her rescue. Joseph announced in tragic accents that the book would always conjure up such painful recollections that he hoped she would refrain from introducing it into the house again. Stephen at once astonished everyone by promising to scour London for all the books that might have been written about the Empress, and to send them down to her.

  "Now, now, old chap, I can't have you teasing your aunt!" said Joseph, shaking a finger at him.

  "You're mistaken. I'm perfectly serious. You shall have innumerable lives of the Empress, aunt."

  "It is very kind of you, Stephen, but I don't want innumerable lives of her. I merely wish to replace the copy that was burnt. And I think that the person who wantonly destroyed it is the person who ought to replace it."

  "I am not that person, but I am in a very sunny mood, and I will replace it," said Stephen.

  "Indeed, you shall do no such thing!" Joseph said. "We can't have him wasting his money like that, can we, my dear? No, I think if you very much want it I shall have to charge myself with procuring you a copy. You shall have it for your birthday! How will that be?"

  "Thank you, Joseph, but my birthday is not until April, as you are very well aware, and I want the book now," Maud replied. "I shall write to Bodmin's, and describe what the book looked like, and I daresay they will know the one I mean."

  Joseph patted her hand. "But, my dear, surely it was quite an old book? I'm afraid you are likely to find that it has been out of print for some years. I can see I shall have to prowl round second-hand bookshops on your behalf. Only be patient, and you shall have it, if I can possibly manage it! I shouldn't worry about writing to Bodmin's, if I were you: I'm quite sure they won't be able to supply it."

  As Maud showed a tendency to argue the point, mid he was already bored by the whole subject, Stcphcu lounged out of the room, just in time to meet Inspector Hemingway, coming away from the telephone-room. The Inspector's eyes were bright with triumph, a circumstance which Stephen at once noticed. Stephen said: "You look remarkably pleased with yourself, Inspector. Found a valuable clue?"

  "The trouble with you, sir, is that you want to know too much," said Hemingway severely. "If you're looking for Miss Clare, she went upstairs a couple of minutes ago."

  "Don't get waggish with me, I implore you! My temper isn't proof against that kind of badinage. I am not looking for Miss Clare. I am escaping from the Empress of Austria."

  The Inspector smiled. "What, you aren't going to tell me she's got lost again?"

  "No; but in her present condition she's of no use to my aunt, and as my aunt cannot recall the name of her author, we have now reached an impasse, discussion of which will very shortly clear this house of its guests. Of course, if you were any good as a detective, you would have discovered by this time who cast the Empress to the flames."

  "Yes, that's what Mrs. Herriard as good as told me," said Hemingway. "I'm sorry I can't see my way to obliging her, but there it is! my time's not my own, as you might say. Why doesn't she ask them at the library who wrote the book? They'll be bound to know."

  "Inspector," said Stephen, "you are a great man! During the whole course of our exhausting discussions, not one of us thought of that simple expedient. I don't want to hear any more tit-bits about the Empress, but I shall pass on your advice to my aunt, partly because I feel mellow, and partly because my Uncle Joseph wants to hear about the Empress even less than I do, judging by his strenuous opposition to Aunt's getting another copy of the book."

  Hemingway's shrewd gaze was fixed on his face. "You don't pass up many chances of annoying your uncle, do you, sir?"

  "None, I hope," said Stephen coolly. "What makes you do it, sir, if I may ask?"

  "Mutual antipathy."

  "Mutual?" repeated Hemingway, lifting an eyebrow.

  "Did I say mutual? A slip of the tongue."

  Hemingway nodded, as though fully satisfied with this explanation. Stephen turned to go back into the drawing-room, but before he reached the door it opened, and Maud came out.

  Her small mouth was folded closely, and she looked at Stephen with a stony expression in her eyes. He said: "I was coming to find you, Aunt. Inspector Hemingway advises you to enquire at your library for the name of the author of that book."

  Maud's countenance relaxed a little, and the glance she cast at Hemingway was almost one of approval. "I must say that is a very sensible idea," she said. "But I still consider that the person who destroyed the book ought to own up. It was a very shabby trick. I should not have thought it of anyone at Lexham, even of you, Stephen."

  "My good aunt, rid your mind of this obsession!" he said wearily. "Why should I have burnt it?"

  Joseph told me that you said -"

  Joseph told you!" he exclaimed, his brow growing thunderous. "I've no doubt! You will probably find that he burned the book himself for the pleasure of casting a fresh aspersion on to me!"

  Maud seemed quite unresentful of this accusation. She said mildly: "I'm sure I don't know why he should do that, Stephen."

  He gave a short laugh, and strode away in the direction of the billiard-room.

  The Inspector watched him go, a thoughtful look in his eyes. As Maud continued her progress towards the stairs, he turned to look at her, saying: "Very unfortunate the way young Mr. Herriard seems to have his knife into your husband, madam. And his uncle so fond of him!"

  But Maud was not to be drawn into discussion. She met the Inspector's look with a blank stare, and said in her flattest voice: "Yes."

  He made no further effort to detain her, but went to find his Sergeant. "They were Joseph's finger-prints," he informed this worthy.

  The Sergeant's lips formed a soundless whistle. "That does look fishy, sir," he admitted. "Very fishy indeed. But unless you can break down his alibi -"

  "Forget it!" said Hemingway. "What have I missed? That's what I want to know."

  The Sergeant scratched his head, "I lay awake half last night, trying to spot something," he said. "But I'm blessed if I could, I don't see what you can have missed."

  "Of course you don't! If you could see it, I'd have seen it for myself, long ago!" Hemingway said irritably. "I've got a feeling the whole time that it's right under my nose, too, which is enough to make a saint swear. The trouble is I'm getting distracted, what with all the engagements being made and broken off, and Mrs. Herriard worrying me to find out who burned her ruddy Empress, and I don't know what beside. What I need is a bit of peace and quiet. Then I might be able to think."

  The Sergeant hid a smile behind his hand. "Mrs. Herriard been at you again, sir?" he asked sympathetically.

  "Not to mention young Stephen. I did think he'd more sense. Anyone would think I'd nothing better to do than to look for missing property!"

  "Who was this Empress anyway?" asked the Sergeant.

  "How should I know? Look here, if you're going to start badgering me about her, I may as well book myself a nice room in a mental home, because I'll need it. I got hold of you to talk over a murder, not to have a chat about a lot of foreign royalties. What would you say was a predominating factor in this case?"

  The Sergeant could not resist this invitation. "Something that keeps on cropping up, sir? Well, I don't quite like to say."

  "Why the devil not?" demanded Hemingway. "What is it?"
/>
  ,Well, sir - the Empress!" said the Sergeant apologetically.

  "Now, look here, my lad," Hemingway began, in an awful tone, "if you think this is the time to be cracking silly jokes-" He broke off suddenly, and his brows snapped together. "You're right!" he said. "By God, you are right!"

  "I didn't mean it seriously, sir," the Sergeant said surprised. "It was just a silly joke, like you said."

  "Perhaps it wasn't quite such a silly joke," Henmngway said. "Come to think of it, there is something queer about that book. Why did anyone want to burn it?"

  "You said yourself, sir, you didn't blame anyone for getting rid of it, the way the old lady would keep on talking about it."

  "You want to cure yourself of this ridiculous habit you've got into of remembering all the things I say which it would do you more good to forget," said Hemingway. "The only member of this outfit who might have pitched the book into the incinerator because he was tired of hearing about it is young Herriard, and he didn't do it."

  "How do you know that, sir?"

  "He said he didn't - that's how I know it."

  "Seems to me you've only got his word for it," objected the Sergeant.

  "Thanks," Hemingway said bitterly. "I may not be much good as a detective - in fact, I'm beginning to think I'm lousy - but every now and then I do know when a chap's lying and when he's speaking the truth. Stephen didn't burn that book, and it's no use trying to get me to believe that it was thrown into the incinerator by mistake, because that's a tale I never did believe, and never shall. Someone tried to get rid of that book, for some other reason than the one Stephen would have had, if he'd done it." His countenance suddenly assumed a rapt expression the Sergeant knew well. He shot out a finger. "Now, Joseph doesn't want the old lady to get hold of another copy, which is why his loving nephew Stephen's out to help her to do so. My lad, I believe we're on to something!"

  "You may be, sir, but I'm damned if I am!" said the Sergeant. "I mean, what can a book about some Empress or other have to do with Nathaniel Herriard's death? It doesn't make sense!"

  "Look here!" Hemingway said. "Who was this Empress?"

  "That's what I asked you, sir, and you ticked me off properly for wasting your time."

  "Elizabeth. That was the name," Hemingway said, quite unheeding. "She had a son who went and committed suicide at some hunting-lodge, with a girl he wanted to marry, and couldn't. I know that, because Mrs. Herriard told me that bit."

  "Do you mean that that might have given the murderer some idea how to kill Nathaniel?" asked the Sergeant.

  "That, or something else in the book. Something the old lady hadn't got to, is my guess. Wait a bit! Didn't some foreign royalty get murdered in Switzerland, or some place, once?"

  "When would that be?" said the Sergeant. ""They're always getting themselves bumped off, these foreign royalties," he added disparagingly.

  "It was some time in the last century, I think. What I want is an encyclopedia."

  "Well, there's sure to be one in the library here, isn't there?" suggested the Sergeant.

  "That's what I'm hoping," Hemingway said. "And I've only got to find the volume I want missing to be dead sure I'm on to something!"

  There was no one in the library when they entered it a few minutes later, and the Inspector was gratified to discover a handsomely bound encyclopedia on one of the bookshelves which lined the walls of the room. The required volume was not missing, and after flicking over a great many pages devoted to the lives of all the Elizabeths in whom he had no interest, and whose claims to fame he was strongly inclined to resent, the Inspector at length came upon Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, born at Munich, December 24th, 1837; assassinated September 10th, 1898, at Geneva.

  "Assassinated!" ejaculated the Sergeant, reading the entry over his superior's shoulder.

  "Don't breathe down my neck!" said Hemingway, and carried the volume over to the window.

  The Sergeant watched him flick over some more pages, run a finger down a column, and then begin to read intently. The expression on his face changed slowly from one of expectant curiosity to one of almost spellbound surprise. The Sergeant hardly knew how to contain his soul in patience, but he knew better than to intrude upon his chief's absorption, and he waited anxiously for the reading to come to an end.

  At last Hemingway looked up from the volume. He drew a long breath. "Do you know how this woman was killed?" he said.

  "No, I don't," said the Sergeant shortly.

  "She was stabbed," said Hemingway. "An Italian anarchist rushed up to her as she was walking along the quay at Geneva to board one of the lake steamers, and stabbed her in the chest, and made off."

  "They do that kind of thing abroad," said the Sergeant. "Look at that King of Yugo-Slavia, for instance, at Marseilles! Bad police-work."

  "Never mind about that! You listen to me!" said Hemingway. "She was stabbed, I tell you, and the man made off. She staggered, and would have fallen, if the Countess with her hadn't thrown an arm round her. Have you got that? She'd no idea she had been stabbed. The Countess asked her if she was ill, and it says here that she replied that she didn't know. The Countess asked her if she would take her arm, and she refused. Now, get this, and get it good! She walked on board that steamer, and it wasn't until she was on it, and it had begun to move, that she fainted! Then, when they started loosening her clothes, they found that there were traces of blood. She died a few minutes later."

  "Good lord!" the Sergeant gasped. "You mean that you think - you mean that it's possible -"

  "I mean that Nathaniel Herriard wasn't stabbed in his bedroom at all," said Hemingway. "Do you remember that the medical evidence was that death probably followed within a few minutes? Neither of the doctors ever said that death was instantaneous. It wasn't. After he'd been stabbed, he walked into his room, and locked tlw door, and that door was never opened again until Ford and Stephen Herriard forced the lock."

  The Sergeant swallowed twice. "And Joseph gave himself an alibi!"

  Joseph gave himself an alibi for the whole time between the locking of that door and the breaking of it open, having already committed the murder."

  "But when did he do it?" demanded the Sergeant. "Miss Clare went upstairs with him, don't forget that! He can't have done it with her looking on!"

  "Get her!" said Hemingway, shutting the encyclopedia with a snap. "You'll probably find her in the billiardroom with young Stephen."

  The Sergeant did find her there, and returned to the library presently escorting not only Mathilda, but Stephen too. He indicated to Hemingway, by a deprecating gesture, that he had been unable to leave Stephen behind, and cast a reproachful look upon that wholly impervious young man.

  "Look here, Inspector!" said Stephen, with an edge to his voice, "when you've quite finished annoying Miss Clare with futile interrogations, perhaps you'll let me know!"

  "I will," promised Hemingway. "There's nothing for you to get hot under the collar about, sir. Since she's bound to take you into her confidence anyway, I don't mind you staying here, as long as you behave yourself, and don't try to waste my time protecting her from the cruel police."

  "Damn your impudence!" Stephen said, grinning reluctantly.

  "You sit down, and keep quiet," said Hemingway. "Now, miss, I'm sorry to bother you again, but there's something I want you to answer. You've told me what happened after you got upstairs to your room on the evening Mr. Herriard was murdered: what I want you to tell me now is what happened before you went into your room. As I remember, you stated to Inspector Colwall that you went upstairs with Joseph Herriard?"

  "Yes, I did," she answered. "That is to say, he caught me up on the stairs."

  "Caught you up?"

  "Yes, he went first to put a step-ladder in the billiardroom, out of harm's way."

  The Inspector's eyes were very bright. "Did he, miss? Was Mr. Nathaniel Herriard anywhere about at that moment?"

  "He had just gone up to his room." "

&nb
sp; Did you see him go?"

  "Yes, certainly I did," she said, a little puzzled.

  "Where were you, miss?"

  "In the hall. Actually, standing in the doorway of this very room. I was enjoying a quiet cigarette in here after the somewhat strenuous time we'd been through over Mr. Roydon's play. The rest of the party had gone up to change, I think. Then I heard Nathaniel and Joseph Herriard come out of the drawing-room together."

  "Go on, if you please, miss. What were they doing?"

  "Quarrelling. Well, no, that's not quite fair. Mr. Herriard was still very angry about the play, and - and one thing and another, and Mr. Joseph Herriard was doing his best to smooth him down."

  "Did he succeed?"

  "No, far from it. I heard Mr. Herriard tell him not to come upstairs with him, because he didn't want him. Then he fell over the step-ladder." A tiny chuckle escaped her. She said remorsefully: "I'm sorry: I ought not to laugh, but it really was funny."

  "Where was this step-ladder?" asked Hemingway.

  "On the first half-landing. Joseph had left it there, and - well, it was just the last straw, as far as Nathaniel was concerned, because he didn't like having paper streamers hung up all over the house, and the wretched steps tripped him up. I don't quite know how Joseph said he knocked them over on purpose, and I must admit it would have been quite like Nathaniel to have done so."

  "Did you actually see this happen, miss?"

  "No; I heard the crash of the steps, and I came out into the hall to see what was going on."

  "Well, miss? What was going on?"

  She regarded him with a crease between her brows. "I don't quite understand, Mr. Joseph Herriard was helping his brother up from his knees, and trying to apologise for having left the steps in such a stupid place."

  "And Mr. Herriard?"

  "Well, he was very angry."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "Yes; he told Joseph to take the decorations down, and said he was a clumsy jackass."

  "Did he appear to you to have been hurt by the fall?"

  "I don't know. To tell you the truth, he had a way of pretending that he was practically crippled with lumbago whenever anything happened to annoy him, and he certainly did clap his hand to the small of his back, and -" Her voice faltered all at once, and she gave a little gasp, and clutched at a chair-back. "Inspector, what are you asking me all these questions for? You surely don't mean - But such a thing isn't possible!"